I always thought heartbreak would be the hardest thing I’d ever face until I was forced to sleep on a moldy yoga mat in a freezing barn while my daughter-in-law threw parties in the house my husband and I built from scratch.I’m 75 years old, and I’ve learned that the worst kind of evil doesn’t come with horns or fangs. It walks into your life wearing lipstick, carrying expensive handbags, and crying crocodile tears.My name is Dahlia. I’ve lived in the same farmhouse just outside of Lancaster, Ohio, since I was 24. My late husband, George, and I built this place from the ground up. It wasn’t fancy, but it was sturdy, just like the two of us.I still remember those early days. George would be out there shirtless in the July heat, mixing cement by hand. I wore his old flannel shirts, hammering nails until my fingers ached.

We poured our hearts into the walls and floors, building something lasting with every swing of the hammer. We were never rich, but we had everything that truly mattered. That house carried our laughter, our fights, and all the dreams we shaped together.We had one son, Adam, and our whole world revolved around him. He had George’s quiet patience and my fire. He was smart, kind-hearted, and always the first to help someone change a flat tire or shovel a neighbor’s walk. I was proud of the man he grew into.When he introduced us to Tara, I wanted to like her. I really did.She was in her early 30s at the time, pretty in a polished, showy kind of way. Long lashes, flawless makeup, and nails that probably cost more than my weekly groceries. She hugged me too tightly, called me “Mom” a little too soon, and smiled with teeth that never reached her eyes.The first time we met, we were all out at dinner. At first, everything seemed normal until I noticed the way she spoke to the waitress.